


Black Butler Preferences

by actualborealis



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Adult Ciel Phantomhive, Character requests selectively accepted via comments., F/M, Scenario requests accepted via comments., Season one characters only as a personal preference.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11977386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualborealis/pseuds/actualborealis
Summary: Scenarios, preferences, and one-shots featuring a select few Black Butler characters - and you!





	Black Butler Preferences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all scenarios, preferences, and one-shots, Ciel Phantomhive will be portrayed as being over the age of eighteen. Thank you.

**CIEL PHANTOMHIVE.**

"Lady (F/N)?" 

Someone was trying to get your attention and you reluctantly pulled your (E/C) gaze from the passing landscape, turning to face them. Your lady in waiting was seated across from you. Her dusky brown hair was pinned up behind her head and she peered at you from a pair of glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose. Her expression was that of expectancy. She'd asked you something, you deduced, flashing her an apologetic smile. She only smiled - a bit tiredly, used to your habits - and shook her head. Her hands folded in her lap, skin shockingly pale against the dark burgundy of her dress, which coincidentally complimented the plush red furnishings of your carriage.

"I was wondering, my lady, if it's not too... presumptuous of me," she began hesitantly. "What... happens now?"

You didn't need to ask for clarification. Your situation was never far from your mind. Several days before this carriage ride, your parents had disappeared without a trace, following a brutal string of murders in the heart of London. For your own protection, apparently on the orders of Queen Victoria herself, you were being spirited out of London. 

"We are being placed into protective custody, more or less," you responded carefully. "Scotland Yard has every reason to suspect that I'm intended to be the next victim of this criminal. Her Majesty feels deeply for us all, and she's sent us to the Phantomhive Estate until the case has been solved, and we're safe again. Don't worry, Mary." You reached out to place your hands over hers, squeezing reassuringly. "We'll be alright."

"Phantomhive... isn't the Earl Phantomhive...?" Mary asked you and you nodded.

"The Queen's Watchdog," you confirmed, retracting your hands. "I understand if you're afraid, Mary. I can't ask you to stay with me. If you wish to leave, I'll have it arranged at once. I'll find you another lady. Someone, somewhere, less dangerous." Your lips twitched into the ghost of a smile that you didn't really mean. You didn't want to be left alone in a strange place, but you couldn't bear to risk her life. To your great relief, she shook her head vehemently.

"Absolutely not, my lady! I couldn't possibly leave you on your own. I promised I'd look after you." 

The carriage rolled through a set of gates and you both fell silent, observing the estate as you approached the stately manor. Years ago, the original Phantomhive family home had burned to the ground, and the new Earl had it rebuilt. Despite belonging to the same social circle, you and the Queen's Watchdog had never met, but you were acquainted with his name and deeds. You knew you were in safe hands but you couldn't shake the apprehension that settled over your shoulders as the carriage door was opened by your driver. Mary was helped out first so she might begin assisting the driver in unloading your trunks. A gloved hand was extended to you and you took it, stepping down, gravel crunching beneath your boots.

"Welcome to Phantomhive Manor, Lady (L/N)." A tall butler with dark hair and curiously crimson eyes bowed to you, his hand delicately resting across his chest. "Allow me to escort you inside. My master is expecting you in his parlor, if you're not too tired from your journey?"

"Of course," you responded, and then you added, "If... you don't mind, it's... Lady (L/N) is my mother. My name is (F/N)." 

"My apologies, Lady (F/N)." His eyes flashed as he straightened up. "This way, please."

He brought you inside. The foyer was grand, as anticipated, and your boots clicked on the floor as you followed the butler. He brought you to the salon door and opened it for you with a polite smile. You gratefully stepped in, (E/C) hues dancing over the furniture and decor before finally coming to rest on your host. Earl Phantomhive stood to greet you with an unreadable expression. He was at least a head taller than you, a bluenette with handsome features. Opposite the eyepatch he wore, a sparkling sapphire orb swept over you, and you flushed slightly under the scrutiny.

Naturally, he was dressed finely, mostly in blues and whites. Blue definitely suited him. He derailed your train of thought by gesturing for you to have a seat on one of the lavish sofas, and you obliged, hands smoothing out the skirt of your (F/C) dress absentmindedly. The tinkling of china saved you from saying anything awkward in introduction as the Earl's butler pushed the tea tray between you. Moments later, he was gone, and you were sipping from a steaming cup of Earl Grey. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady (F/N)," Earl Phantomhive spoke finally, his gaze never leaving you, even as he partook of his beverage. "I regret the circumstances, of course. My condolences."

"Thank you, Lord Phantomhive," you said quietly, placing your cup back in its saucer. "I understand you'll be looking into the disappearance of my parents?"

"Yes." He managed to sound both polite and bored at the same time. He also managed to completely conceal his keen interest in you. This did not happen to him - ever - but when you had entered the room, he'd nearly forgotten how to breathe. There was something so inherently beautiful about you. While he'd initially been more than irritated that the Queen insisted he have you in his home until the case was solved, he decided that perhaps it might not be such a terrible time. "I will bring the party responsible to justice, I can assure you of that."

You nodded distantly, not sure if he meant that or not. That was the trouble with nobles. One could never be certain if they were being genuine or not in saying the things expected of them. The young man seemed to sense your distrust and the corners of his lips twitched upwards. That meant you were intelligent, at the very least. 

"I will see to it that my butler tends to your needs," he continued, drawing your attention back up from the contents of your teacup. "And if there is anything you require, do not hesitate to ask, Lady (F/N). The manor is your home, for as long as you are in danger."

"Thank you, Lord Phantomhive," you repeated, finishing the last of your tea and placing the saucer on the table. "I beg your pardon, but the trip has worn me out."

"Of course. Sebastian!" At his master's call, the butler reappeared, smiling. "Show Lady (F/N) to her room."

"At once, young master. My lady?"

With a nod to the Earl, you rose and trailed after Sebastian. The door clicked shut softly behind you, leaving Ciel to his thoughts. You were a far cry from the other noblewomen he knew. You were certainly nothing like Elizabeth Midford, his cousin, which was something he'd been very anxious about. He couldn't survive a presence like  _that_ in the manor for an extended period of time. But you? He couldn't be sure yet, it was far too early to tell, but he thought perhaps he might even enjoy having you around.

 

**FINNIAN.**

The English countryside was, first and foremost, idyllic. It was a far cry from the Highlands, certainly. You had grown up surrounded by heather and mist, but out here all you could see was sunshine and wildflowers. You treasured it after spending the last two years in London. That cesspool of a city, where the stench of the air choked you, where you felt closed in by the endless expanse of buildings. You never wanted to be separated from the countryside again, you decided, watching from the carriage window as the vibrant landscape flew by. Seated across from you were two men - a nobleman and his butler. Ciel Phantomhive sat straight, one leg crossed over the other, his hand closed around his exquisitely crafted walking stick. Sebastian Michaelis was watching you, hands in his lap. 

Just that morning, the peculiar butler had rescued you from a drunkard in an alleyway, ripping him away from you and tossing him aside like one might discard a piece of trash. There was distaste present on his face as he dusted off his gloves before turning his attention to you, your back pressed against the rough wall, your heart pounding and your jaw slackened in surprise. Bruises were beginning to form where the man's hand had been closed around your throat. You were a bit fidgety, smoothing down the skirt of your ragged (F/C) dress. You weren't sure if the newcomer was friend or foe. You were poised to flee the moment he made any sudden moves. 

To your surprise, he simply cocked an eyebrow at you and asked, "Why did you hold back?" Silence stretched between you both.

"What?" you managed after several moments. 

"You could have taken care of him easily." The raven-haired man indicated your attacker, sprawled unconscious in a puddle nearby. "But you didn't use your...  _abilities_." You tightened your jaw; you weren't sure how he knew about any of that, but it only served to make you warier of him. He narrowed his gaze at you and then relaxed it, understanding spread across his unnaturally flawless features. "Ah, I see. You aren't in complete control of them, are you? You don't want to cause collateral damage."

"How do you know about me?" you asked.

"I'm collecting promising employees for my young master. I understand you are a witch. We may be able to make use of your talents." That didn't explain very much but it did put you in considerable danger, should someone be within earshot. 

"Don't call me that!" It came out as a low hiss, harsher than you'd really intended - you were just afraid.  _Witch_ was not a friendly word. Not in Scotland and certainly not here. You weren't keen on getting yourself in that sort of trouble.

"Apologies." You had the feeling he'd used the term on purpose. "Will you be coming, (F/N)? Room and board are included in your wages."

"... what'm I needed to do?" 

Sebastian had smiled then, knowing he had your answer.

That led you to here, being brought from London the the Phantomhive Estate, riding in a luxurious carriage with your new master and his butler. Dangling from your neck was a pendant of (favorite gem), a piece of jewelry far more beautiful and valuable than any you'd ever owned before. It had been presented to you quite unceremoniously by Ciel, who'd clearly been expecting you to agree to his butler's proposition. At your baffled expression, he'd impatiently explained that he'd had it made for you, to help you reign in your... abilities. You didn't ask him where he'd procured a thing like that. You simply took it with an exclamation of gratitude, and clasped it on immediately.

Once you arrived at the manor, you were brought to the servants' quarters by Sebastian, who had already informed you that everyone you were about to meet had their own particular talents that made them of special use to the young master. You were not to feel too frightened to share with them why you were hired. The butler's assurances did surprisingly little to quell your anxiety, but you were able to muster a smile nonetheless when you were first introduced.

The chef, Baldroy, was tall and blond, with an easy smile and little refinement. His rough mannerisms reminded you a bit of your home country. It helped you to relax. Mey-Rin was excitable and, as you quickly discovered, incredibly clumsy. But you had no trouble understanding her accent or the pace of her speech, and found yourself slipping back into your own Scottish accent the longer you spoke with her, pleased to find that she had no trouble understanding  _you_. Tanaka said nothing, but you'd been told to expect as much. The final servant you met was the gardner, Finnian. He had a mess of strawberry blond hair that he kept pinned out of his sparkling turquoise eyes. He laughed nervously at almost everything, and seemed worried about shaking your hand. 

"You can call me Finny," he told you, rubbing the back of his head, the movement a bit awkward around the hat that dangled at the back of his shoulders. 

"(F/N)," you responded, lips pulling into a slight smile. "It's... wonderful to meet you. All of you," you added hastily, cheeks reddening. Before you could say anything else, you were ushered away by Mey-Rin, who was under orders to help you clean yourself up and get dressed in something more suitable for your position. Your (E/C) eyes caught and held Finny's gaze for a moment over your shoulder before you disappeared down a hallway.

"Huh," he remarked to himself, forgetting Baldroy and Tanaka behind him. "She's something else."

 

**SEBASTIAN MICHAELIS.**

When Ciel had first been asked, upon his mysterious return with his even more mysterious new butler, wether or not you were with him, he discovered that he really could feel more fury than he did previously. During his time in captivity, he'd been informed that his entire family had perished - he naturally believed that you had succumbed to the flames just like your parents. He should have known better than to listen to what the cultists said. And though he had no way of knowing where you were, he vowed that he would find you and bring you home.

His beloved sister.

But the years dragged on without anything to show for his efforts both in achieving his revenge, and in searching for you. His agitation swelled and finally brought him to the breaking point on what would have been your eighteenth birthday. Sebastian was drawn to his master's study by the sounds of absolute chaos. He opened the door, only to shut it again quickly when a particularly valuable vase was thrown at it, smashing against the wood and falling to the floor in pieces. The butler sighed and clicked his tongue, opening the door again. Ciel stood in front of his desk, hands spread on the surface, breathing heavily. Papers were strewn across the carpet. Broken glass littered the rug. One of the windows was open, the accompanying curtain half torn down, and Sebastian dreaded to think what the Earl had chosen to hurl to the ground outside. 

"What a mess you've made, my young lord." He fixed his burning gaze on the back of Ciel's shoulders. 

"It's her birthday," spat the bluenette. His hands shifted, his fingers curling round the edges of his desk. If he'd possessed the strength of his idiotic gardner, he'd certainly have splintered it by now. "She should be here. She should be home."

"Your sister," Sebastian mused, disinterested, stooping to retrieve a picture frame that had been tossed carelessly among everything else. The glass was broken, but the photograph itself was not damaged. This was fortunate - photography was such an expensive endeavor, and this portrait of the Phantomhive siblings had certainly cost the family a fortune. The demon supposed, however, that the sentimental value was greater. He studied the children. He recognized Ciel easily enough, despite the smile he never wore anymore.

He had never seen you in the flesh, but not for the first time he found himself wondering how much you took after your brother. What you'd look like now, years from being the laughing little girl captured in this picture. Ciel turned to snatch the frame from Sebastian, carefully standing it on his desk. He gritted his teeth. He needed to double down his efforts. He'd find you. He had to. 

"Master, might I - " The butler was interrupted by an unexpected intrusion. The study door slammed open and a breathless Mey-Rin stood there, waving some sort of letter in her hand, high above her head.

"Sebastian! Master Ciel!" she cried, her shrill voice unmistakably eager. "A letter! Just came, yes it did! For you, young master!" 

"Bring it here," Ciel ordered, but Sebastian took the initiative to stop her before she could injure herself on the carnage spread across the floor. He plucked the letter from her fingers and sent her on her way, ignoring the maroon of her entire face as he brought his master the letter. The young Earl ripped it from his gloved hand and broke the seal, retrieving the folded paper from the envelope.

"My lord?" Sebastian prompted when Ciel didn't speak straight away. The letter was thrust into his hands again and his crimson eyes scanned the hastily penned words with keen interest. He glanced up at the young man, who was already lifting his eyepatch, the contract seal it concealed shining. 

"Sebastian, this is an order. Retrieve my sister and bring her home to me." 

"Yes, my young master." He fixed his gaze once more on the name of the institution which, the informant who had sent the letter had discovered, held you.  _Bethlem Royal Hospital._

While the exterior of the so-called hospital was sprawling and attractive to the eye, the activities of the interior were nothing short of disturbing. The push for reform during the last few decades, and the investigations into Bethlem, did very little indeed to ease the suffering of the patients. After witnessing the murder of your parents and the kidnapping of your older brother, you were taken to London. Your beautiful (H/C) curls were cut short, you were called 'Poppy', and your captors claimed that you had gone mad with grief after your prostitute mother killed herself. The asylum received a particularly generous donation and admitted you with very few questions. 

Paired together, the medicine and the abuse kept you quiet. For all anybody knew, you were just Poppy, the prostitute's daughter - insane. You stopped trying to prove the soundness of your mind long ago. Futile efforts, they were, and they'd only unravel you in the end. You needed to stay strong, despite the cell-like room they kept you locked in. One day, you promised yourself, you would walk out of this wretched place and you would find Ciel (or die trying). 

When the door swung open, your entire body tensed, expecting the worst. You were very surprised to find yourself staring up at a man dressed much like a butler, bent to extend an immaculate gloved hand to you with the politest of smiles on his handsome face.

"Pardon the intrusion, Lady (F/N). My name is Sebastian. I'm here on behalf of your brother, the Earl Phantomhive. He's sent me to collect you."

Maybe you'd finally gone mad.  _If this is madness, I'll accept it._ You silently placed your hand in his and let him pull you to your feet. Your legs nearly gave out on you immediately, but his arm caught your waist, holding you up. You could hear him  _tsk_ quietly. 

"At this rate, we'll never make it home in time for dinner. Excuse me, my lady."

"What - " You were cut off by the stranger lifting you into his arms bridal style, carrying you quite casually through the hallways. You gripped his jacket nervously. Wouldn't someone see, wouldn't someone stop him? But curiously, you saw no one, the entire time you wound through the place called Bedlam. Not a single inmate, not a single staff member. 

Sebastian walked you right out the doors and marched right up to a waiting carriage. He leaned in, placing you gently on the seat and retrieving a fleece blanket from the seat opposite you, draping it over your lap. You wanted to thank him but he'd already shut the door, climbing to the driver's perch and snapping the reins. You fell asleep quicker than you thought possible, waking only when the butler opened the carriage door again. You couldn't believe your eyes. You were staring up at your home - but that was impossible. Hadn't it burned to the ground? You stepped out uncertainly, a little wobbly, faltering the moment your hand left Sebastian's. 

A pair of arms caught you. You lifted your (E/C) eyes up to the face of your brother; more matured, more troubled, but still Ciel. Tears were wetting your cheeks in moments as the young Earl held you close to him. No words were exchanged. Neither of you had the strength to speak, it seemed.

From a few feet away, the demon stood watching, observing the reunion between brother and sister. He felt  _something_ stir in his chest and his lips creased into a barely noticeable frown. This was going to complicate things already. He didn't need to start having emotions on top of it. But there was just something strange about you, (F/N) Phantomhive, that made him have a peculiar thought. A thought that he couldn't describe with any word except human. 

_How touching._

 

**UNDERTAKER.**

"Oh, would you leave the poor bastard alone? Bein' dead's hard 'nough without your skull being used to reenact Shakespeare!" 

Yet despite your words, you dissolved into a fit of giggles, perched on a weathered tombstone while you watched your brother. He was meant to be hard at work digging a pauper's grave but he'd accidentally  _unearthed_ a pauper's grave. And well, he couldn't very well help himself. He'd always been a little bit morbid. That's what you both got for being the children of the cemetery's caretaker. Your father was a quietly eccentric man. Local children thought he was some sort of monster and the adults sometimes called him the crypt keeper, but you knew him better than all that. He was very kind and unusually optimistic for a man that made his living in a place surrounded by the dead.

"Eh, he's dead, he don't know!" George obliged nonetheless, replacing the skull with the rest of the nameless skeleton's bones. He took off his hat and pressed it to his chest, mumbling an apology for disturbing the grave before beginning to fill it back up, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. He scrunched up his nose distastefully. "Got to find a different spot for this'un, I suppose."

He jerked his thumb back towards the shabby wooden coffin lying in the grass not four feet away. You slid down off the tombstone and approached it, kneeling to run your hands across the surface. It wasn't very smooth; you got a couple of splinters. Whoever had made this had not done a particularly good job. You knew straight away that this was not the work of the man who ran the shop just a few streets down. You'd never seen him before, didn't know his name, but you recognized his coffins. They were of a different class than all the rest.

It fascinated you.

"D' you know who we're buryin'?" you asked, looking up, your big (E/C) eyes capturing your brother's face. He shook his head.

"S'why it's a pauper's grave, (F/N)." He ruffled your pinned-up (H/C) locks with a dirty hand, grinning lopsidedly at you. "They're too poor to be remembered. Shame, really. That'll be us one day, more'n likely."

"I won't let it be," you huffed. "If you die 'fore I do, I'll buy you a proper plot, and a proper coffin too." George chuckled.

"Alright, s'a deal. Whichever of us lives longer than the other buys a proper plot and a proper coffin for the dead'un. Now quit rubbin' your hands on that, you'll give yourself splinters." He groaned when you sheepishly held up your already splinter-riddled hands. " _Jesus_ , (F/N). Pa's gonna kill me."

You were giggling again, standing and concentrating hard on picking the splinters from your (S/T) skin. It stung. By the time you were finished, the new pauper's grave was well underway, and you were able to help George place the coffin inside once it was ready. You recited the names and dates on as many headstones as you could while you waited for him to finish packing the dirt back in, patting it down with his shovel and turning to you. He stuck out his arm and you took it, letting him pull you from the fresh grave and back towards the rundown little cottage at the far end of the cemetery. 

"Pa! We're 'ome!" George called as he opened the door for you, shrugging off his two-sizes-too-big coat and ragged scarf to hang up. You slid your mother's old shawl from your shoulders and draped it over the back of a chair, moving to shut the curtains to hide the interior of your home from the outside world. 

"Isn't he in yet?" you asked your brother when your father didn't answer. He shrugged his shoulders. 

"Dunno. But I'm goin' to bed." 

"I think I will too. M' _exhausted_." Fortunately, the process for getting undressed took far less time for a woman of your means than it did for other women. Your skirt, bodice, and protective camisole were removed and neatly folded by the bed you shared with your brother. You swapped corset and drawers for a simple white chemise and while you removed your garter, you elected to keep the stockings on for warmth. The only thing to do was let your hair down and you stood at the dressing table your father had bought your mother, bent over to peer into the small, cracked mirror as you removed the pins holding your soft (H/C) hair in place.

The door slammed open. You and George both turned, startled, halfway through some motion or another - you with several hairpins held in your teeth and your hands in your hair, George lifting the blankets to climb into bed. Your father stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his (E/C) eyes wild with an emotion you didn't understand. His gloved hands were trembling. He must have seen something terrible! You rushed to his aid immediately with a soft exclamation, ready to examine him for injuries, perhaps guide him to take a seat so he could explain what had happened. But you'd do no such thing. 

He grabbed you by the throat and lifted your feet right off the ground, throwing you. Your back hit the table and it snapped in two, dropping you roughly to the floor. The lantern that had been sitting on top of it shattered, oil spilling everywhere while you quickly shielded your face from the broken glass. George was on his way to help you up when your father grabbed him as well, forcing him to the ground, beginning to slam his fists into his head repeatedly. He was growling like some sort of deranged animal. You didn't understand what was going on, why he was doing this. 

"Pa! No, please,  _stop_! You're killin' 'im! You're killin' George!" you cried out, but that did nothing to cease the blows. George had stopped moving. You couldn't see his face for all the blood. And your father kept going like he hadn't heard you - like he hadn't just bashed his own son's head in. Whatever that thing was, it was no longer your father. It was no longer human. You cast your eyes about frantically, searching for something, anything! 

George's shovel was leaned by the door and you scrambled for it, ignoring the shards of glass beneath your palms and knees. You gripped the handle and swung it around at the exact moment your father lunged at you. It struck him in the head, but you repeated the blow several times, until you were certain he wouldn't be rising again to attack. You dropped the shovel. It  _clanged_ dully against the floor as you stumbled to your brother's body, dropping to pull him into your arms. You couldn't even recognize him anymore, save for his clothes. 

You glanced back at your father. Maybe you'd never understand why it had happened, but one thing was clear now. You were alone.

What little savings your family had left, it turned out, were enough to purchase two 'proper plots' and two 'proper coffins' - on top of you selling just about everything of value you had, besides yourself. You finally visited the shop with the sign that only said  _Undertaker_. It was a dreary place, you found upon stepping inside, but somehow that didn't bother you so much. You felt a little bit at home surrounded by the coffins. You leaned closer to one to inspect it, only to take a surprised step back when the lid was pushed off. 

The man inside was tall, wearing a grin that almost seemed off-putting, his silvery hair falling down around his shoulders. It was so very long. He pointed a black nail at you in an somewhat threatening manner before he snickered.

"And what brings you to such a place, my lady?" he asked curiously. How he could see you when his eyes were entirely obscured by his smoky fringe, you had no idea. But maybe he couldn't - he'd called you a lady and you certainly weren't. 

"I'm (F/N)," you told him. "You're... working on my brother and my father."

"The crypt keeper's daughter," purred the Undertaker, folding his hands into his sleeves, nodding his head. "Funeral's tomorrow. Preparations are finished, my dear. You needn't worry. I did have a question, though. Your brother - that's some dreadful work. Who killed him?" Your jaw tightened.

"My father," you answered. You sensed the surprise more than you saw it.

"And who killed your father?" His head tilted to the side slightly. 

"Me." You refused to lift your eyes from the floor as you answered, so you didn't see the faint upwards twitch of his lips.

"Suppose I won't be fitting  _you_ for one of me coffins anytime soon." The Undertaker was surprised at your reaction - you started laughing. Quietly at first, but it grew steadily louder as the absurdity of your situation sunk in. It was contagious, that laughter, and he couldn't keep it from bubbling up in his own chest. He wound up draped back over a closed coffin when the fit ended, catching his breath. He straightened up and pushed his hair from his face, revealing a pair of phosphorescent chartreuse eyes that stunned you, kept you rooted in place. "Say... have you ever considered a position as a mortician's apprentice?"


End file.
